The Tales We Tell
by lizandletdie
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin has stories enough to keep his daughter entertained, but Belle has some of her own. Rumbelle Family Fluff featuring bedtime stories, Rosie Gold, and some lesser known fairy tales.
1. The Spindle, The Shuttle, and the Needle

"I want _Mama_ to tell me a story," Rosalind Gold huffed, with all the righteous indignation her five years could muster.

"Well your mother has had a long day," her father (Rumplestiltskin in the other world, Rumple to his wife, and Mr. Gold to everyone in this place) replied as patiently as he could. Rosie's baby brother, Ben, slept in a cot in the next room where their mother, Belle, had finally gotten him to sleep after a full day of cutting teeth and crying. Belle had theoretically been sent off to a nice relaxing bath and an early bed by her husband after putting Ben down for the night, but had felt too guilty to skip Rosie's story after also missing her bath time and teeth brushing. She'd been on her way to perform this final bedtime ritual when she'd been stopped outside the door by her husband's voice. She would indulge herself in listening to them just a moment longer, she swore, then she would go in and do the story and save the day. She just loved watching him with the children, he was a beautiful father.

"What story would you like to hear?" he repeated the offending question, the gentleness of his voice not betraying any frustration at Rosie's rejection, nor a hint of the power he possessed.

"You don't do the voices," Rosie huffed. "Mama always does _all_ the voices."

"Well perhaps I'll tell you a story of my own, then, hm?"

"What story?" Rosie sounded skeptical, and Belle smirked, wondering which of his exploits he could possibly want to share with their daughter.

"This is the story of another girl, from a very long time ago," he began.

Belle risked a peek into the room, Rumple was squeezed awkwardly into the small mattress next to Rosie who was laying against her pillow but not relaxed in sleep yet. The scene warmed her heart, her husband awkwardly posed in most of a three-piece suit and their daughter not quite realizing that most father's didn't do bedtime in expensive waistcoats as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Was she a princess like mama was in the old world?" Rosie chirped, and Belle heard Rumple chuckle.

"Your mother was a _lady –_ not a princess," he reminded her. "And this girl was a peasant, like papa."

"Oh," Rosie said sounding only mildly disappointed. "I thought you were a wizard."

She knew the gist of her parents' history, enough for a little girl of this world anyway, but his life before he was the Dark One was something he rarely spoke of and Belle knew only a little more than her daughter did.

"I was a wizard," he corrected (it had been an easier word for her to understand than 'sorcerer'), "and before that I was a peasant. I made string and yarn."

Rosie didn't reply, just gave a soft hmm that Belle knew meant the girl was beginning to grow sleepy.

"This little girl was named Morraine," he continued. "Her family made string like papa, but they were very poor. Things were very hard for peasants, in the old world, and when Morraine was about fifteen years old her mama and papa became very sick and they died."

Belle debated interrupting now, reading her daughter _The Paper Bag Princess_ and then taking her husband to their bedroom to demand why he thought a story about a teenager losing both her parents to the plague was a good bedtime tale for their kindergartener, but Rosie interrupted for her.

"But you didn't get sick, did you, Papa?"

"No," he replied, and Belle could hear the sad smile in his voice. "Papa didn't get sick. Papa was far away when this happened."

After he'd become the Dark One, then. Funny, Belle had never heard this story. She wanted to, though. He rarely spoke of his past, and the memories of the time before he was the Dark One were tinged with sadness over the loss of Bae. He never refused her questions, but information was never volunteered and Belle could tell it hurt him to think of and didn't like to bring it up. This felt like a story he needed known for whatever reason, else he'd not have chosen it. She lowered herself to sit on the hall carpet with her back to the wall as she eavesdropped.

"After Morraine lost her parents, she went to go live with her godmother, who was a very old woman, but very good at making cloth, spinning thread, and sewing."

"Just like you?"

"She was even better than me," he whispered this part as though it were some special secret they shared and Rosie giggled happily to know this new thing.

"Morraine got a little older," he continued. "And better at spinning and making things. One day when she was a young woman – not much younger than your mama was when I met her – her godmother died."

"And she was alone?" Rosie sounded more curious than scared, else Belle would have intervened. Rosie knew nothing of being alone, in addition to her parents she was quite attached to her much older nephew Henry (who was also her godfather, and guardian to both Rosie and Ben if – gods be merciful – anything were to happen to her parents) as well as Henry's rather large extended family. 'Alone' would not be an easy concept for her to grasp.

"Morraine was all alone," he parroted. "One day, though, Morraine was spinning thread on her godmother's wheel and a prince came through the town..."

"Did he fall in love with her?" Rosie murmured, sleep seemed to be claiming her slowly, but she was valiantly hanging on.

"No, my dear, not right away." Rumple sounded far away, now, himself. "He was looking for a wife, and had promised to marry the richest and poorest girl he could find, and Morraine was the poorest in town. He went to her door, but when he saw her she was too shy to introduce herself and too scared to speak to him so she kept working and he went away."

Rosie made another small noise of acknowledgment, and Belle wondered how he knew this story at all or what his place in it was. Who was Morraine to him?

"When he was riding away, though, what do you think happened?"

"What?"

"Morraine's spindle jumped off her wheel and rolled out after him, trailing gold thread behind it towards her door!"

This detail seemed to charm Rosie, who squealed at the image – she knew what a spindle was better than most people of this world, and while the idea of gold thread being on one would not strike her as odd, she'd definitely never seen one chase a man down the street. This, at least, answered Belle's question about Rumpelstiltskin's place in this tale.

"Poor Morraine was so nervous, that she went and grabbed her shuttle – that's the thing that holds the string when you're weaving cloth – and began weaving as the spindle ran off after the prince."

"Then what happened?" Rosie was completely entranced now, fighting her exhaustion to hear the end of her father's story.

"Well, she wove a little bit of cloth and then the shuttle flew out of her hand and began weaving a beautiful tapestry – that's a thick fabric like the dining room curtains – in front of her door."

"And then the prince came?"

"Not yet, be patient, dearest," he soothed. "So she grabbed her needle and began to sew but the needle flew out of her hand. It sewed new tablecloth, curtains for all the windows, and finally put a new dress on Morraine."

"And _then_ the prince came." She said the last bit with perfect confidence.

"And then the prince came," he confirmed. "The prince had followed the thread all the way back to her house, and when he discovered the tapestry he went inside to see where it had come from and he found Morraine wearing a dress of the finest silk he'd ever seen."

Rosie made another one of her sleepy noises, and she knew the story was nearly over. Belle could get back up and sneak away – these stories tended to end the same way – and he'd never know she'd listened to this, but she wanted him to know. This story had given her nothing but questions, and she didn't want to hide from him.

"So when the prince saw Morraine in her fine dress and her magical items, he realized that while she was the poorest girl in town she was also the richest. So he took Morraine to be his wife, and carried her off to his castle."

"And they lived happily ever after?" Rose was on the verge of sleep now, her voice soft and muffled.

"They lived very happily for a very long time, yes," Belle heard her husband begin to move as he slid off the bed and kissed his daughter's forehead. Rose hummed a little, but Belle knew she'd sleep soon. Belle listened as Rumple walked across the room, shutting the light off and leaving the door open just a crack in case she woke during the night.

"Enjoy the story, sweetheart?" he said with a smirk, turning to look to Belle for the first time.

"Did you know I was out here the whole time?"

"I saw your shadow in the doorway," he smiled at her. "You don't have a future in espionage I'm afraid."

Belle rose to her feet and kissed him quickly on the lips before answering him.

"Come," she said, not wanting to risk waking Rosie with their whispered conversation in the hallway. "Let's go to bed."


	2. Catherine and Her Fate

"So what was her price?" Belle asked him as she changed into her nightgown. He was lounging quietly in pajamas, waiting for her to join him in bed.

"Pardon?"

"Morraine," she clarified, poking a head out of the bathroom where she was brushing her hair. "What was her price? For your assistance, I mean."

"What makes you think I asked one?"

This got her attention and before he knew it, she was standing in the doorway and giving him a _look._

"What makes me think that Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One, The Spinner, the Deal-Maker asked a price for setting a peasant girl up as a princess?" She flipped off the bathroom light and slipped in between the covers and settled next to him. "_All magic comes with a price_, after all. What was hers?"

He rolled over and looked at her a long moment. She looked just as she had when first he met her – though she'd aged ten years since but she'd not changed a bit, still the same curly brown hair, fair skin, and the same eyes that seemed to look right through him.

"I asked no price," he said finally. "She was a friend of Bae's, from the time they were children – his best friend, really. Everyone thought they'd end up married someday, I'd even gone so far as to speak with her father to decide how best to prepare them. She was one of the last children taken to the front, and the only one who was never afraid of me even at my worst."

"And then Bae left," she provided him with the words he still could barely say.

"And then Bae left, and I left, and her parents died," he replied. "And Morraine was all alone. All magic comes with a price, but I decided she'd paid her price long before."

"And her prince, he was good to her?"

"He was a sweet boy," he chuckled at the memory of how gentle this particular prince had been. "There was a reason I chose him specifically for her. She had a happy life."

"That's good, then." Belle said simply, wrapping her arms around him and pulling herself close enough to rest her head on his chest.

"So tell me a story," he teased, holding her tightly against himself.

"You want to hear a bedtime story?" she asked incredulously, pulling away enough to look at him.

"Well," he began, "I have it on excellent authority that you're the superior storyteller. I'm just sizing up my competition."

She huffed and relaxed back against him, and she was quiet for so long he was afraid she might have gone to sleep.

"Once upon a time," she finally said into the stillness of the night, "there was a girl named Catherine."

He searched his memory, but aside from the cursed persona of Princess Abigail he had no recollection of anyone named _Catherine_ in all his vast years.

"She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant in Avonlea, and she was beautiful and clever and beloved by her father," she rolled slightly onto her back, her head still pressed heavily into his shoulder. "When she was still a young girl, a patron fairy came to her and asked her this question: 'would you rather be happy at the beginning of your life or the end?' and Catherine was clever, and said she would rather be happy at the end because at least then you have something to look forward to."

He wanted to say something, then, about trusting _fairy magic._ He'd never truly trusted them in the first place, and his experiences with them over the centuries had only proven his initial instincts correct.

"The fairy was true to her word," Belle continued. "Soon, Catherine's father died and his ships were lost and she had nothing left. She became a servant in a large house for several years. Eventually, the lady of the house became curious about the maid with such lovely manners and called for Catherine and had her tell her story."

He felt a wet patch on his chest and realized she had been crying silently. He pulled her closer again, offering whatever comfort he could as she told her tale.

"Once the lady heard the story, she convinced Catherine she'd suffered enough and should go to her family's patron fairy to plead her case. Catherine met with the fairy, and was given a gift – a spool of thread," here Belle gave a soft little laugh. "Initially, Catherine was going to throw it out because it was such a silly thing, but the lady insisted she must keep it for it would be useful someday."

"Little things like that often are," he whispered. "It's the memorable details that make the story, after all."

She nodded in agreement before continuing.

"Not long after, the Lord of the Marchlands was to be wed, but could not find any thread to match the fabric of his wedding clothes," depending on the time period of this story, the Lord of the Marchlands would make this either Belle's father Maurice or one of his ancestors and Rumpelstiltskin suddenly understood the import of her tale. "Spinners and merchants from all over came, but no exact match could be found. Remembering her gift from the fairy, Catherine went to the capitol with her thread. Of course, it was the exact right color. Hearing her story and seeing her beauty and cleverness first hand, the Lord was so taken with her that he scorned his intended and married Catherine instead.

He heard her sniffle again and she was silent for a little while, inviting his questions.

"And what became of them?"

"They were married happily, and had one child – a daughter. Everyone said she took after her mother in looks and temperament, and for awhile they were very happy together."

"Before the ogres came," he provided.

She made a bitter little noise.

"That's the thing they don't tell you about fairy deals, you see," she said. "Beginning and end of life are relative, and when you're guaranteed a happy end of your life you need to die before tragedy strikes."

He could think of nothing to say to this, he'd used such twists of language many times in his life, though he doubted Belle would want to know more about it.

"So she died, and the ogres came anyway, and my father never trusted fairies again."

This explained so much, really. He'd never quite stopped to wonder why Sir Maurice would have summoned him rather than fairies to protect his people, instead marveling at his own good fortune in being able to whisk Belle away to be a living trophy in his castle.

"I'm sorry, Belle," he whispered into her hair, pressing his lips to her temple and wishing her whatever comfort he could provide. "I never knew."

"My father doesn't like to talk about her," she explained. "I suppose I'm out of the habit as well. I scarcely remember what she looks like anymore, although I always favored her physically, so I suppose she looked quite a lot like I do now."

He had nothing to say to that, because he knew the pain of loss. It was a raw wound that would never quite heal, and he could offer her nothing but himself, poor consolation that he was.

"I imagine," he said finally, "that she would have been very happy to know that you chose your own destiny rather than trusting in others."

"I think she'd have liked you," Belle replied, fingers trailing across his chest softly. "She was a very understanding woman."

"Well," he said, leaning down to press a firm kiss against his wife's lips. "That trait seems to have run in the family."


End file.
